


winter and water-pitchers

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad Puns, Canon Era, Developing Friendships, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Extended Metaphors, Fluff, Grantaire Rants, Kissing, M/M, Metaphors, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Snow, Snowed In, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27325165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: Enjolras makes a split-second decision then—a rather stupid one in Grantaire’s opinion, because he turns and drags Grantaire in the wrong direction. Why else would they be heading to the nicer neighborhoods, where the cobblestones do not turn your heels and you do not get thrown out by your landlords in the middle of the night?Grantaire’s feet still know the streets, even as Enjolras steers him almost at random, and he knows that none of their friends’ houses lie in that direction. “Where are we going?” he mumbles, and his tongue flops uselessly in his mouth.“My rooms,” Enjolras says.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 88
Collections: Enjoltaire Games 2020





	winter and water-pitchers

Grantaire returns to consciousness in stages. First, he notices that he is no longer being kicked or punched, and that he is no longer lying on a filthy wine-shop floor, but on a snow-covered pavement, which is similarly filthy. Second, someone is scrubbing forcefully at his cheeks and stubble. Third, he is staring up at a very familiar face, complete with golden curls, an untied cravat, and a comically serious frown.

“Enjolras?” he croaks.

“That is my name, yes,” Enjolras says, with the barest hint of a smile. He tilts Grantaire’s face backwards, gentler this time, and wipes his nose with a wadded handkerchief. “I hope none of this blood is yours.”

“No,” he says, remembering the brawl from earlier. His words are slurred, his thoughts sluggish in his skull. “They left my face alone, probably figured it’s broken enough as it is. What they didn’t leave alone were my ribs.” He winces dramatically for the benefit of his audience.

Enjolras sighs. “You _idiot_.”

“I have just been beaten spectacularly in a fight. It is a little early to start flinging insults.”

“You _started_ the brawl.”

“Irrelevant!” Grantaire declares empathetically. It is a little hard to do so while still lying on the pavement and being cleaned up like a child, but he manages. Enjolras just rolls his eyes and sticks his hand out to help Grantaire up.

Even considering the fact that Enjolras’ hand is in his and that it’s enough to knock any man off-balance, Grantaire’s vision still pitches and swoops far too much. He sits down heavily on the pavement, dragging Enjolras down with him with an undignified flumph.

Enjolras looks nervously around and keeps a firm grip on his hand which, Grantaire is loath to inform him, doesn’t help at all. He doesn’t trust his own voice to say that out loud though, so they sit together in the cold as Grantaire attempts to coax himself into sobriety.

“We cannot stay here long,” Enjolras says finally. “If you are going to pass out, please do it now where it is less inconvenient.”

Grantaire waits, patiently, for his vision to blacken. It does not happen, so he gets up, slowly and carefully with many pauses to allow for accidents. Enjolras rocks back and forth on the heels of his shoes, his head whipping from side to side to check for approaching policemen. It makes his golden curls bob around his head in a very becoming manner.

“All right,” Grantaire says, stifling a burp. “Lead the way.”

Enjolras makes a split-second decision then—a rather stupid one in Grantaire’s opinion, because he turns and drags Grantaire in the wrong direction. Why else would they be heading to the nicer neighborhoods, where the cobblestones do not turn your heels and you do not get thrown out by your landlords in the middle of the night?

Grantaire’s feet still know the streets, even as Enjolras steers him almost at random, and he knows that none of their friends’ houses lie in that direction. “Where are we going?” he mumbles, and his tongue flops uselessly in his mouth.

“My rooms,” Enjolras says with such confidence that Grantaire’s tempted to lean on him all the way there. He almost manages it, too, but he slips while going up the porch steps, and being carried by Enjolras doesn’t count as leaning on him, he thinks.

Enjolras opens a door and practically throws Grantaire onto a bed. He struggles to escape, to make his excuses and return to his own, perfectly serviceable, rooms to brood over the encounter to his heart’s content. Instead, he’s unceremoniously undressed, swathed in a soft, chilly blanket, and tucked into bed like an unruly child. Enjolras looms over him like a god of judgement and perfectly-sculpted eyebrows.

“What?” he manages to get out, and it is not remotely what he wanted to say.

“There is no way you are making it to your rooms in this weather,” Enjolras says stiffly, indicating the window with a jerk of his head. Snow is coming down in thick swirls, crusted against the panes of glass. “You should sleep here.”

“Do I even have a choice?”

“Good night, Grantaire.” And just like that, Enjolras stalks out of the room. The door swings shut with an unsatisfying click, and Grantaire stares at it like the answers to all his questions are written in the wood grain.

So, Grantaire is stuck here in Enjolras’ spare bed, trapped beneath a blanket and a quilt on top of that and his head in the dastardly grasp of two very satisfactory pillows. This is a test; he just knows it. If Grantaire gives in to the luxury and decadence of a roaring fire and bedding so soft he would weep from the sheer joy of it, he fails. If he comes to his senses, kicks himself out like a repentant little revolutionary, and spends the night freezing to death in his own apartment, he succeeds.

He just wishes the room was a little less warm, or the bed a little less soft. It would be much easier to make better decisions if everything bad wasn’t so _tempting_.

Finally, he decides to sleep, damn the consequences. If Enjolras is going to kick him out in the morning with large disappointed eyes and worried looks, Grantaire is damn well going to be rested when it happens.

When he wakes up, contentment has settled deep into his bones. He doesn’t want to stir, doesn’t want to move a muscle, but his time in Enjolras’ rooms is almost up, and he needs to face that fact.

He sneaks a peek outside the window, because he wants to see what time it is, and is met with a small, minor setback. Namely, the sky is exactly as gray and foreboding as it had been the day before, and the snow has piled up past a man’s waist. It does not look promising.

 _No_. He can’t be snowed in with Enjolras. He cannot. Enjolras would end up burying his body as soon as the ground was soft enough to dig, and he wouldn’t even do their friends the courtesy of selling him for dissection at a discounted price.

That conclusion being reached, he returns to bed, tucks himself back in beneath the covers with minimal success, and waits. And, of course, because his brain is a traitorous creature and given to impossible fantasies, he ends up thinking about Enjolras.

Enjolras, pushing open his door, golden in the light from the fireplace and smiling from a half-remembered joke. Grantaire dragging Enjolras into bed with him, shouting claims of protection against the cold. Enjolras laughing and dragging Grantaire out of bed, talking of breakfast and possibly revolution. There wouldn’t be liquor, because the thought of Enjolras willingly keeping any sort of intoxicant in his home is laughable. Breakfast with Enjolras, then, would consist of fighting over who gets the larger slice of cheese and who gets the stronger mug of tea.

They would leave the apartment arm in arm after wrestling with the frozen door, fascinated by snowflakes and frost on windows both. Or they would stay inside all day, basking in the warmth of the indoors and the comfort of books and pillows. Or they would end up never leaving the bed, legs and fingers tangled together, and Enjolras’ hair would be soft, when Grantaire finally gets to touch it, and his smile would be even more heart-wrenching at close range, and he’d shut Grantaire up with a kiss—

—No. Enjolras is going to hear his thoughts through the wall, loud as they are. He’d know what Grantaire was thinking about. He’d be disappointed, disgusted, _horrified_. Grantaire can’t have that. His brain needs to shut up.

His brain does not shut up.

As penance, Grantaire slinks from the warm bedroom out into the freezing apartment. He cleans up some of the mess he made when coming inside, cleans the scuffs of Enjolras’ boots from the floor. He noses around contritely in some Rousseau, passes judgement on the bookshelves, and leaves some tea and toast outside Enjolras’ door. All in all, he makes a good show of it before the cold drives him back to the bedroom and he is immediately knocked unconscious by the comfort of the bed.

A knock on the door jolts him out of sleep, and he leaps out of bed to answer it. He does end up tripping on a rug and falling flat on his face, but that is the only delay.

Enjolras stands at the doorway, and Grantaire has to shut his eyes, because Enjolras is bleary-eyed from sleep, and his hair is gloriously fluffy, and he is only wearing an unbuttoned nightshirt. What the hell. Grantaire has to restrain himself from telling Enjolras to come back when he’s more decent, because frankly, that ensemble should be outlawed.

“Yes?” Grantaire says, and it comes out a shaky whisper.

“I haven’t asked a question yet,” Enjolras says, confusion tinting his voice, and Grantaire dares to crack his eyes open. He looks just as lovely as he was a few seconds ago, although his brow is furrowed and he is yawning, and Grantaire really wants to button his shirt so he can look properly.

“Ask away.”

Enjolras produces the cup Grantaire left outside his doorstep and shows the contents to him. A muddy slush coats the insides.

“You didn’t have to leave dirty snow outside my door,” Enjolras says, sounding wounded. “I realize we don’t always get along, but this sort of prank—”

“—no, that’s tea.”

Enjolras gives him a skeptical raise of his eyebrow.

“Well, it _was_ tea.” Grantaire sniffs the cup. “It is my professional opinion, as a friend to several medical students, that you should not drink that.”

“I will take that under advisement,” Enjolras says, with a little smile, and really, that should be illegal too. He thanks Grantaire for the gesture, returns to the freezing main room, and chews ponderously on cold toast as he stares into the distance. He shivers in the cold, and who wouldn’t shiver, without a dressing gown over the thin linen of his nightshirt? Something has to be done about it.

“It’s cold there, isn’t it?” Grantaire says, because this is a delicate operation, requiring stealth and tact, and he has to lay the groundwork for the invitation before he makes it, and he blows it in the span of a few words. He expected nothing less.

Enjolras gives him a withering look. “I am aware,” he says, like his teeth aren’t chattering and he isn’t one stiff breeze away from becoming an icicle. He searches for ink and quill distractedly.

Grantaire almost smacks himself on the forehead. “I meant, it’s cold _there_ , and it’s warm _here_ ,” he says, gesturing with his entire body. “It really doesn’t make sense for you to be cold over there, when you could be warm over here.” And to prove his point, he drops onto the bed and luxuriates in the sheets.

Enjolras just stares, and if Grantaire didn’t know any better, he would swear that there was a hint of blush in that pale face. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Grantaire stares. “Enjolras, I am a guest in your home.”

“And as a guest, you need to be comfortable.”

“Enjolras, get in the damn room.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at that and finally, _finally_ , leaves his lofty perch and enters the room. It would be dignified if he wasn’t hunched over in an attempt to keep the cold away and his shoulders weren’t pulled up to his ears.

“The ink was frozen anyway,” Enjolras says, as if he has to justify his choice. “Oh.”

Grantaire’s hackles are up before he can think. “If I ruined the balance of your perfect room, I can leave.”

“Oh, shut up, Grantaire.” He flexes his fingers experimentally. “I hadn’t quite realized how cold it was.”

“If you’re losing feeling in your fingers, that’s generally a bad sign.” He grabs Enjolras’ hands to examine them, turning them towards the fireplace light. It’s not strictly necessary to do that, but Enjolras doesn’t protest, so he most likely doesn’t object. “Right, get in bed.”

“What?”

“Have I mentioned it’s warmer than standing around with the door open? Not being cold is good for your health.” He bundles Enjolras into the nearest sheet and shoves him onto the bed. “Stay.”

“You sound like Combeferre.”

Grantaire clutches his heart in offense.

“Though I suppose you wouldn’t be the sort to wander around in the snow because, and I quote, ‘the moth flew in that direction.’”

Grantaire does not mention the time he attended a lecture on acids with Combeferre, in the middle of a blizzard. They had agreed never to speak of it, after all.

Enjolras narrates Combeferre’s moth encounter with the appropriate amount of exasperation, complete with little flapping gestures and facial expressions. Grantaire’s heart is likely to give out if he listens any longer, so he starts a speech of his own. He talks about souls of men and beasts both, and how nature sees fit sometimes to give one to the other, and about the ingratitude of humanity.

Enjolras’ eyes drift shut as Grantaire finishes his ramble, and he breathes in a way that could be considered a snore, if it was the slightest bit less angelic or musical. He clutches the fluffier pillow and snuggles into it with a sigh, and Grantaire has never been more jealous of an inanimate object in his life.

Enjolras mumbles something into his pillow and Grantaire is suddenly very, very aware of the fact that he is a guest in Enjolras’ home. A most unwanted guest, and one who takes up far too much space and makes too much of a nuisance.

Well, as long as Enjolras is asleep, he can’t possibly disapprove too badly of Grantaire leaving the room and plundering his bookshelves. He saw at least three indulgent novels tucked away in a corner before, probably smuggled from Courfeyrac’s own stash of romances. Grantaire blesses the world for the wonder that is Courfeyrac.

It’s only gotten colder, and Grantaire knocks a stack of pamphlets to the ground as he pulls the books out of the bookshelves. Underneath is an entire loaf of bread, well-wrapped in paper and still fresh. Further examination reveals several similar stashes of food around the apartment, like Enjolras is a squirrel storing nuts for winter. Grantaire does not focus on how adorable that image is. That would be strange.

The rooms are too cold to stay in for any amount of time, so Grantaire gathers the novels and heads back to the spare bedroom, and as luck would have it, he comes across a bottle of wine.

It’s a very nice bottle of wine, mind you. It’s a good year, the label is well-printed, and it’s clearly been kept well. It is also unopened, and Grantaire prepares to pull the cork out and take a swig.

Only, a wine like this deserves to be savored, not gulped like a madman. He throws up his hands and goes for a wineglass, which he finds tucked away in the back of a closet. Enjolras, of course, would be compulsively neat, so Grantaire memorizes how to put the wineglass back to avoid suspicion.

He returns to the main room, to the bottle of wine, and settles into the horribly cold couch to pour himself a glass. He’ll let the wine breathe, and he’ll sip it slowly. That is the best course of action, of course.

Only, the bottle’s cold, and this particular wine is best paired with a good meal and hot summer days, not the deadly frost of winter. It would be a disservice to the wine to consume it today when he cannot have the full experience. It would be a crime.

“I hate remorse,” he announces to the room, and proceeds to return everything to its proper place. “It’s a loathsome thing, a patch on the well-embroidered heart of man. God starts a project, says to himself that he’ll leave that pesky sinfulness until later, and submits it without a change. Thus is humanity, a slapdash work of God.”

There’s no one to silence him or ignore him, so Grantaire finishes his speech in silence. The words practically freeze on his tongue, so he returns to the spare room.

Enjolras is still asleep, curled up on one side of the bed, and there’s enough space beside him for Grantaire to very carefully squish himself against the edge, far away from any potential contact. He tucks his feet under the covers, sets his back against the headboard, and prepares to crack open a mediocre book.

And then Enjolras shifts, and rolls over, and his head ends up on Grantaire’s chest, and his hair in Grantaire’s mouth, and his arms tighten around Grantaire.

This is not a good development.

Grantaire squirms, and wriggles, and flails his arms about, but he is drowning in blankets and masses of Enjolras’ hair, and he cannot make any headway.

Enjolras’ eyes flutter open, and they are very blue. He frowns at Grantaire. “Stay still,” he commands.

Grantaire does.

“Better,” Enjolras says, with a satisfied nod. He drops his head back on Grantaire’s chest and nuzzles happily into the ruffles of his shirt, and Grantaire is _dying_.

Enjolras must notice his distress, because he sits up and looks at Grantaire with wide, serious eyes. “Do you want lunch?”

Grantaire swallows. “Don’t bother.”

“I have some fruit tucked away,” he says, and Grantaire actually knows that, because he saw the bag of apples under the couch.

“It will only cause evil.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks. He’s about to regret his decision.

“Ah, food!” Grantaire starts. Enjolras makes a face and pretends to stop his ears, and the ribbing _doesn’t_ warm the cockles of Grantaire’s heart, nor does it heat his face enough to fry an egg on. It is simply a symptom of being sober.

“Food is the cause of all evil in the world. In the beginning of humanity, for example, Eve ate of an apple, and Adam along with her. A slice stuck in his throat, and marked his neck, and starved him from the ground. A slice stuck in her belly and gave her pains in birth. Oh, for an upset stomach to ruin the race of men! For a selfish God to damn us all for the theft of one wretched apple!

“The ancient people knew of the misery of food. Take the Greeks! Eagles feast on the liver of Prometheus for his crime of giving humanity fire. This is the gratitude of their gods, the sentence pronounced, the judgement is clear: your body must serve as the banquet. Tantalus bakes Pelops into a pie and feeds him to the gods to make up for stealing ambrosia, and as punishment, they steal of him all hope of satisfaction. Persephone is chained to Hades for the seeds of a pomegranate, as if promises hinge on hunger. A golden apple is the price of the Trojan War, three wrest Atalanta of her freedom, and Heracles’ redemption rests on more. Odysseus’ return is delayed for want of a slab of beef. And of course, on the side of the Romans, Aeneas is starved of his destiny until he eats his tables.

“Lord, what misery food brings! If you haven’t enough, you starve, and you ache, and the flesh falls off your bones and your stomach gnaws itself to bits. If you have too much, you swell and your stomach rebels and your bowels declare independence. If you eat too rich, you get your head cut off, and if you eat too poor, you cut off the heads of others, you steal and you kill for a morsel of bread. Food makes monsters of men.

“And what it does to your mouth! Your breath is the worse for eating, your teeth get ground down, and worms infest the remains. If your bread is too hard, your teeth fall out and your jaws ache. If your cake is too sweet, your mouth rots and your teeth swarm with holes. Your teeth get stuffed with gold, you wear false teeth to hide the falseness in your soul.”

He pauses to take a breath, and Enjolras frowns. “If you don’t want apples—”

“—But I do want apples,” he says, a little too quickly, and immediately curses his tongue. Enjolras chuckles at that and leaves the room before Grantaire can throw a blanket or three over his shoulders.

He’s back before Grantaire can go after him, shivering his way under the covers. Grantaire gives in to the urge to pat the lump where he judges Enjolras’ head to be. He’s good at giving in to urges, and Enjolras doesn’t protest, only sticks his head out of the covers and leans into his touch like a particularly affectionate cat.

Enjolras’ hair is so soft. Grantaire had no idea hair could be that soft. Silk, probably, or the clouds in the heavens above, but not hair. And it glows, like firelight in the winter. How does it glow? How is it so soft?

“Apples,” Enjolras says, after Grantaire’s fingers are well-tangled in his hair and his heart sits well and content in his chest.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I brought apples.” And with a straight face, he produces a heavy sack from underneath the covers and starts counting out apples onto the blanket. Grantaire’s hand is still in his hair, and he makes no attempt to dislodge it, either.

They eat in bed, neither of them wanting to leave. Enjolras, Grantaire learns, is easily distracted, every bite punctuated with a distant look and a profound comment on the state of the nation. In return, Grantaire demonstrates his skill at apple-stealing.

“I used to do this at the atelier,” he says, rolling the apple from his shoulder down to his wrist. “Didn’t fool anyone, but I did manage to play the most tricks on the master.”

Enjolras smiles. “How appalling. Or should I say—” He holds up the last apple and suddenly Grantaire knows what he’s about to do.

“— _no_ —”

“—apple-ing?”

Grantaire shoves him off the bed, and Enjolras shrieks with laughter as he tumbles off. Unfortunately, he takes the blanket and pillows with him, and so Grantaire is forced to haul him back onto the bed to retrieve them.

“Your puns, monsieur, should be outlawed. They are an assault to all morals and sensibility.”

“Well, I suppose I was always…” he pauses. “Rotten to the core.”

Grantaire hits him over the head with a pillow.

Both of them are laughing breathlessly by the time lunch has concluded. Grantaire magnanimously allows Enjolras to keep making more puns, and the way he puffs up proudly when he makes Grantaire snort has nothing to do with it.

“Do you just sit down one night and decide that you will make the worst puns in Paris?”

Enjolras pauses to consider the question, tapping his chin with dignity. “It was an afternoon actually,” he says, after careful consideration. “At a meeting.”

Grantaire cannot help but laugh. “Of course it was.”

“Our friends were quite supportive.”

Grantaire bites back the instinctive denial of friendship and simply nods. “Laigle?”

“It was Joly, actually.”

“He gets into a lot of trouble, did you know?”

“I believe you.”

“He caused the brawl last night.” The words are out of Grantaire’s mouth before he realizes it. “Well, he wasn’t present, but it was still because of him. Someone was making fun of his tongue-mirror.”

Enjolras looks angry now, all traces of mirth wiped from his face. His hands curl into fists. “Who—“

“I punched him, do not worry.” Grantaire dares to pat his shoulder. “All taken care of.”

Enjolras does not seem to relax at that. He snarls, baring perfect teeth. “In the face?”

“Broke his nose.” Grantaire gestures to his face. “It’s worse than mine now.”

“You broke your nose?!”

Clearly, Grantaire underestimated Enjolras’ ability to focus on the wrong thing. “Around ten years ago, yes. And then every year after that.”

Enjolras still looks like he’s about to take up arms against Grantaire’s various nose-breakers, so Grantaire hastily changes the subject. He teases Enjolras about the romance novels on his shelves—“I haven’t read any of them,” he protests, but Grantaire is sure he’s lying—and threatens to flip to the back pages and spoil the endings.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire dangles the book in front of him. “And why not?”

“I’ll tell Prouvaire.” Enjolras actually _smirks_ at that, and Grantaire has to slam the book across his face to hide his ridiculous reaction. “He’ll have your head on a silver platter.”

“You wouldn’t subject me to so cruel a fate,” Grantaire says, lamenting over the side of the bed. It’s easier than looking Enjolras in the eye. “Have mercy.”

Enjolras ignores him, as he should.

When dusk eventually falls—and it takes its sweet time falling, in Grantaire’s opinion—they are both huddled together on the bed. Enjolras takes one glance at the clock and hisses.

“It is early,” Grantaire protests, as Enjolras gets out of bed and starts rooting through the wardrobes. It is early, in fact, but Grantaire’s complaints have more to do with the cold Enjolras lets in and the absence of warmth at his side.

“It is late, and you cannot sleep in those clothes.” Enjolras pulls out two shirts, holding them up for inspection and squinting at them. “Would you rather have a shirt that is too large or too small?”

“One that is just right, if you please,” Grantaire says, before Enjolras throws a shirt in his face—the large one, he thinks—and he hears the sounds of bathing. He keeps the shirt well over his eyes as Enjolras splashes about and audibly shivers. It is a little hard to breathe through the fabric, but Grantaire manages.

“Your turn,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire takes the shirt from his eyes. Enjolras is dressed, although his nightshirt is unbuttoned and his hair is damp and dripping on the floor. “You needn’t be concerned for your modesty. I will avert my eyes.”

“Promise?” Grantaire says, and his mouth is very dry.

“You may trust me,” Enjolras says, and he does turn away.

It doesn’t stop Grantaire from hurrying, and madly dodging around the furniture in case Enjolras looks up. He nearly upsets the water pitcher twice, slopping water on the floor and rug. Oh well. It will dry, or freeze, whatever comes first.

“I can hear you worrying,” Enjolras says, face still turned away.

“I am not worrying.”

“Really now.”

“I am calm. I am the most calm. I am the calmest person ever, the calmest one alive. It’s hard to out-calm the dead.”

“Grantaire, shut up and get in.”

Once they are both in bed, Enjolras transforms once again into the cuddling, soft-haired demon of before. He winds his arms around Grantaire and hooks his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder, murmuring something about being too cold. He complains when Grantaire tenses and relaxes when Grantaire does.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire chokes out, past his heart thudding in his throat.

Enjolras makes a confused noise and nuzzles further into his shirt “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he lies. “Good night, Enjolras.”

He is not exactly sure what he is expecting. Maybe for Enjolras to wish him good night as well, or to stay silent and return to his side of the bed like a rational person. He does not expect Enjolras to carefully reposition himself, take hold of Grantaire’s face with both hands, and gently press a kiss to his lips.

“What?”

“Good night!” Enjolras squeaks, and he dives back into the covers on his side of the bed. Soon enough the only part of him Grantaire can see is his hair sticking out from the top of the cocoon of blankets.

Grantaire swears, shakes himself twice, and goes to sleep.

When Grantaire wakes up, Enjolras is wrapped tightly around him, and because the universe has turned his body traitor, he is also wrapped around Enjolras. Sunlight streams from the window in blinding beams, and the fire has died down in the grate.

Of course. The snow is gone now, and with it, any chance of Grantaire prolonging his stay. Not that he wants to prolong his stay, of course. It’s just economical, during days like these, to share rooms and burn less wood between them, and this particular room is quite good at preventing heat from escaping. And it is cleaner, to boot.

(And there’s better company, the tiny voice in Grantaire’s brain says, but he ignores it. It is not a voice particularly worthy of attention.)

Grantaire takes one last look around the room, because Enjolras is going to kick him out as soon as he wakes, and he rather likes the décor. It’s a nice room, and the blue trim on the white curtains matches with the blue flowers on the water pitcher. Grantaire will miss the room, nothing more.

And he drops his eyes to the quilt with its awful patterns, and nearly leaps out of his skin.

Enjolras is staring back at him.

Before Grantaire can make an excuse—his arms are still around Enjolras, why are his arms still around Enjolras?—Enjolras clears his throat and speaks. “You haven’t spoken for an hour and fifty-three minutes. Should I be worried?” He does look worried, and his grip on Grantaire is not quite as tight as it had been.

Grantaire cannot have that. “No, no, of course not,” he babbles.

Enjolras frowns and ignores him. “Did I make you uncomfortable last night?”

“No, not at all.” Grantaire clears his throat. “I was quite…comfortable. No discomfort here.”

“Oh.” Enjolras seems to consider this a moment. “Can I kiss you again?”

Grantaire nods frantically, and Enjolras does so, with a happy little noise. He’s warm, and his arms are around Grantaire, and his hair is soft when Grantaire touches it, and Grantaire _melts_.

“I need to leave,” Grantaire says as soon as they part for breath, and Enjolras looks at him with horror in his eyes.

“Why?!”

“You know,” Grantaire says vaguely, gesturing into the distance. “Because. You understand.”

“No, I do not.” Enjolras frowns and gets off Grantaire. “You will have to explain it to me.”

“It will be better with a metaphor. Take that water pitcher,” Grantaire says, hauling himself off the bed. He snatches up the pitcher and holds it out for his audience’s perusal. “To be human is to wallow in dirt and grime, born in muck and buried in muck at the end of days. We return at the end, to ash. This pitcher is our futile attempt to keep our ultimate fate at bay. Let us observe.”

He turns it around. “It is, in itself, pristine, in order to serve as an example, and its aim is to convert other people towards this unattainable ideal. There is nothing vestigial in this water pitcher.” He traces a finger over the floral decorations. “This spout is shaped perfectly to bestow water upon the hapless devotee. These pretty decorations serve to tempt and attract. The blue flowers, the pale porcelain, the gilding across the rim. And it fits tolerably well with the rest of the room’s accoutrements.” He gestures wildly, nearly splashing the room in the process. Enjolras does not flinch.

“Here, its proper place is in the center of this fancy doily, where it may sit apart, but within reach of the desk in the case of laziness. It demands attention, even in this room of rest, and in doing so, becomes impertinent. The rest of this room is no better. Perhaps the sight of the pitcher inspires them to rebellion.” He paces, his feet barely making a sound on the floorboards.

“This bed, even when covered in this God-awful quilt, provides the rock on which we build the church of sleep. Stark white sheets, only given color and variety by additions and extravagance. Such is life without want, such is want without need, such is greed without taste. Add to that the two pillows upon it, one impeccably fluffed, the other having seen better days, inseparable as monks and pillows are. Equality is nonexistent, one having a surfeit of stuffing, and the other a scarcity. Should we not redistribute possessions, should we not abandon the meaning of property? Why should one pillow have more than its partner?” He thumps the bed with his free hand, hard enough to make the pillows bounce. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. He continues on.

“And the entirety of this room, warmed by the fireplace’s glow, and the rug in front of the fireplace completing this most charming painting. It is misleading but pleasing to the eye. Painting is an act of deception, one that is best put to the test by imperfection. Displace a single element or add one, it matters not. The imbalance will show to the artist as well as to the viewer. A blot upon the painting, a defect of a brush, a rip in the canvas—”

Enjolras massages his lofty brow and sighs. “For the love of all that is good and holy, Grantaire, shut up.”

Grantaire freezes. The water in the pitcher slops out.

“Put the pitcher down.”

He puts the pitcher down. Enjolras nods in approval.

“As I was saying…”

“You do realize that I am not about to kick you out onto the streets just because you have a misguided sense of what belongs and what does not,” Enjolras says.

“I was talking about a _water pitcher_.”

Enjolras does not seem to hear him. “Whatever gave you the notion we do not accept you?”

“A water pitcher,” Grantaire protests.

Enjolras grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him in frustration, which goes a long way towards silencing him. “If you wish to stay with us, you can _stay_. Here, if you want to. Heaven knows I have the room. Arrangements can be made.” He sighs, shakes out his glorious hair, and continues. “Hell, if you do not fit with the décor, we’ll buy you a blue waistcoat, or put flowers in your hair. Or I can get rid of the water pitcher. Your choice.”

Grantaire laughs weakly. Of course, Enjolras would find a way to work that into his own speech. “I don’t want you to get rid of the water pitcher,” he admits. “’S a nice water pitcher.”

“Good.” Enjolras kisses him once again, utterly oblivious to what effect he’s having on Grantaire. “Anything else?”

Grantaire swallows. “Did you mean it, what you said?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Enjolras says, and it feels like he ought to be thundering it from the skies, his voice ringing with conviction. He isn’t, though, and his voice is warm.

“Well, you might mean them now, but you might not mean them later, or tomorrow, or next week, maybe, if we were being generous—”

“Grantaire…”

“I’ll stop,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “And I’ll stay.”

Enjolras’ smile bursts out like sunshine from the clouds. “I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Team:** Grantaire  
>  **Theme:** Home  
>  **Prompt:**  
> 


End file.
